Tech Tree
by Lutetia720
Summary: The Department of Mysteries begins an initiative to prepare for Voldemort's inevitable rebirth just as Death Eaters fanatically search for their fallen leader - and a young Muggle is caught in it all. AU GoF
1. Prologue: The Unseen War

**Prologue – The Unseen War**

_Edwin Mallard_

_Aboard the MAV_ Relentless Advance

_April 20__th__, 1994_

_08:07:06_

"This is delusional, even for you." Honorius Tarquin growled, stunned senseless.

"Aren't we all?" Edwin Mallard replied dryly, his sharp features allowing a slight smirk. The two men were standing on an observation platform aboard the _Relentless Advance_, a massive airborne command center that served as the Department of Mysteries' top-secret headquarters. The _Advance_ cruised lazily in the stratosphere, its wide surveillance window providing a spectacular vista of the Scottish landscape thousands of meters below, through the cloudless spring sky, giving the passengers on board a sense of omniscience and omnipresence – and being the Department of Mysteries, they probably were.

"They're staying one step ahead of us, Honorius," Mallard continued calmly, "and the more we waste time squabbling over the same nonsense, the less likely it will succeed. We need to implement it _now_, not when they've already got the sharper edge against us. Fudge, the old fool, and the rest of the mainliners refuse to see the truth. They deny the very obvious when it hovers before their noses - that the Dark Lord is back. Incorporeally, yes, but he is no doubt, sequestered out there, planning his rebirth. It's a matter of time before he-"

"But surely, even you wouldn't be fool enough to put all your faith in a _mere boy_?" Tarquin replied harshly, his face in a disbelieving scowl as he stepped in front of Mallard. "Why not entrust it to a Legionnaire? I'm sure they could manage the job far more than a teenager, and do it more quietly and efficiently – and moreover, why, then, would you entrust such a complicated job to a _Muggle_?"

"And I suppose it would not be both inconspicuous and extremely wasteful to have an agent doing something so low and mundane?" Mallard countered, losing his patience. "To have an trained and armed operative spending their time in a castle, when they could be putting their skills to _good use_, finding leads or suppressing Death Eater activity, especially when four – _four! _– schools of magic are congregating here for the Triwizard Tournament. It'll be irresistible for the foul scum to cause some mayhem and terrorise those present, and the Ministry is paranoid enough as it is without the Dark Mark appearing over Hogwarts – we've already got surveillance crews preparing for the Quidditch World Cup. Merlin knows there'll be so many of us from around the world attending the Cup that nothing less than all hell would break loose if _they_ – and you damn well know who I mean – were to make themselves known there."

Tarquin considered this for a moment, glancing downwards at the glimmering speck of a lake far below, then turned to Mallard again. "But that's the problem – what makes you think a Muggle would be able to do the job, when Voldemort himself could not enter Hogwarts back when he was in his prime?"

"Obviously, that will be my work to handle." the other wizard dismissed. "I'll be giving and teaching him anything and everything he needs to make it in there, and I'll give him his _real obligation_ in due time, if he's willing. None will harm him there – after all, Scrimgeour did personally ask us for heightened security. That _is_ the other reason we are here in the first place - may I need to remind you that Harry Potter, a prime target for the enemy, attends the very school we are surveying now? It will be prudent to keep every single Legion on their guard during the event – as one of them will also be keeping close watch on the boy during the entire term."

And there – Mallard senses his victory as Tarquin's lips twitch ever so slightly, but moves no further. Checkmate.

"Alright. But if this fails…"

"It won't. That you can count on."

With a curt nod and a small, resigned sigh, Tarquin turned away from Mallard. He stopped momentarily and looked at the junior wizard over his shoulder, but shook his head and kept walking on, out of the observation deck. Mallard noticed this not; he was still brooding by the window.

_You better do this right, Fontaine. A lot is about to be on your shoulders, yet you don't even know it._


	2. A World Just Out of Sight

**I – A World Just Out of Sight**

_Leon Fontaine_

_An indiscriminate location in Scotland, United Kingdom_

_September 1__st__, 1994_

_18:45:34_

There it stood: a massive castle atop a gently sloped hill, a castle of many towers and turrets that radiated beams of soft golden light. A dark, shining lake sprawled in front and to the right of the castle, and across the lake's waters dark shapes were cutting through – if Leon remembered correctly, the first-time students on the way – and he could hear faint clanking and clopping to his left, the second-to-seventh years on their way. Behind Leon, the distant shriek of a train whistle echoed as rain violently lashed everywhere. Powerful winds rocketed through the swaying and groaning trees, and lightning arced in brilliant bolts, tearing in flashes across the storming skies.

It existed. It actually existed. A titanic stone castle large enough to hold half of Wales stood here, before Leon's eyes – and to think none of his kind could see it, and no matter how many times he opened or rubbed his caramel-brown eyes, currently widened in complete shock, the castle remained as it was, giant, stone, and completely unbelievable. Oh, Leon imagined, with a slight smirk, the expression on Selina's face if she were here with him – at how overjoyed she'd be at how, for years, she maintained that Beauxbatons was not the only school for witches and wizards, and there were other of her kind around the world, she was sure – but that smirk faded a second later as Leon realized, he would probably never see his sister again. The smirk turned into a scowl as he remembered _why_ he would never see her again.

Leon pushed the thought out of his head with some effort, reminding himself that this castle – _Hogwarts_, he kept overhearing the students back at King's Cross station – was his new, if secret, home. An enigmatic, suit-clad man, introducing himself as Monsieur Mallard and telling Leon he was trying to help him – only after Mallard finally admitted that he was a wizard, and one working for the magical government had he finally, grudgingly, trusted the brusque fellow, and at the police station had given him a little cardboard parcel and several sheets of parchment that detailed points about the castle, some know-how pointers about the various trickeries and traps within, and how to survive in a place where he was not welcome – the man had warned Leon that, as a _Muggle_, or one who could not perform magic, he would be hated and distrusted by some of the more prejudiced aspects of the school – moreover, they would see his presence as a threat to their community's secrecy. They would tamper with his memory.

Yet where else could he go? He had run away from his quiet suburban home in France at two months ago when he received word that his sister Selina would be departing to England, to witness some important event, stowed away on a cross-Channel ship, and now here he was in the strange and novel land of England – Scotland, specifically. Orphanages would ask questions, too many, and living off the streets when he had no experience living in a large urban environment was suicide, especially one which culture he knew nothing of and language even less. Hogwarts was his only option.

Standing up from his crouching position beneath a large oak – and being drenched with a fresh new torrent of rain just after drying in the process - Leon shouldered his backpack and tossed his hood over his head once again, though not before his messy brown hair became soaked and even messier. He grabbed his rifle by the barrel – his grandfather's prized MAS-36, a relic from the Second World War – and set off through the thick woods, careful not to stray too far into the dark, eerie trees but keeping close to the muddy trail carriages had just rumbled across.

_19:06:09_

Leon knelt beside an elaborately-decorated stone window ("window" was an understatement, two rhinos side by side could've trampled through without touching either edge), perched precariously on a ledge jutting out from below the window, behind him open air stretched out for at least a hundred feet above the lake's rocky, rough shore. The ultramarine armband the man gave him had turned him completely invisible – his utter surprise when he slid the band over his right arm, looked down, and saw nothing but the forest floor beneath him, only two miniscule depressions where his unseen feet pressed upon! – and he clasped one hand upon the window sill, another holding steady to a steel pin rammed between two stone bricks.

He peered up through the elegant, though currently raindrop-covered glass and saw a hall as large as an aircraft hangar, alight by floating candles and wall-mounted torches, but the ceiling… there was no ceiling at all, just a dark sky – yet there was no rain falling showering the students, just pitch-black, somewhat foggy air! Four long tables lay in the center of the hall, one filled with scarlet-scarved students, another silver, another blue, and another yellow, all half-damp. A larger fifth table rested on the end opposite to the hall's entrance (a massive set of wood-and-brass double doors), this one a wide U-shape and occupied by apparently the staff, judging on how the seated wizards and witches were far older, and one, bearded and wild-haired, was thrice as big as the rest – and where those _ghosts_, translucent and pearl-white apparitions, drifting about the hall? The hall echoed with idle chatter and discussion.

The giant double doors swung open, and as wet and bedraggled wizards and witches entered the massive hall, a disturbance caught Leon's eye – looking upward he saw an opaque, faintly blue man wearing a motley assortment of odd clothing soared out from the door the students came out of, shot like a bullet up and out of sight. The soaked newcomers, some with fragments of multicolored rubber stuck on their black robes and generally showing signs of being recently bombarded with water balloons, milled into the hall, sitting down at different tables except for the first-years, who stood in two lines in front of the staff table (Leon remembered the school having four Houses, kind of like fraternities), and the whole hall fell silent the moment a tall, dark-haired witch strode forward and placed on the spot before the first-year students, a three-legged wooden stool, then set a tattered, frayed brown wizard's hat atop the stool.

To Leon's complete surprise, the hat moved, a tear in its folds opening like a mouth, then began to sing in a deep, gravelly voice:

_A thousand years or more ago,_

_When I was newly sewn,_

_There lived four wizards of renown,_

_Whose names are still well known:_

_Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,_

_Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,_

_Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,_

_Shrewd Slytherin, from fen._

_They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,_

_They hatched a daring plan_

_To educate young sorcerers_

_Thus Hogwarts School began._

_Now each of these four founders_

_Formed their own house, for each_

_Did value different virtues_

_In the ones they had to teach._

_By Gryffindor, the bravest were_

_Prized far beyond the rest;_

_For Ravenclaw, the cleverest_

_Would always be the best;_

_For Hufflepuff, hard workers were_

_Most worthy of admission;_

_And power-hungry Slytherin_

_Loved those of great ambition._

_While still alive they did divide_

_Their favorites from the throng,_

_Yet how to pick the worthy ones_

_When they were dead and gone?_

'_Twas Gryffindor who found the way,_

_He whipped me off his head_

_The founders put some brains in me_

_So I could choose instead!_

_Now slip me snug about your ears,_

_I've never yet been wrong,_

_I'll have a look inside your mind_

_And tell where you belong!_

With greater interest, Leon leaned forward, careful not to slip on the half-drenched bricks, applause and cheering rising from the hall. _So that's how new students got their houses; an old hat would tell them where they would belong_…

The same witch who placed the sorting hat now strode forward and unrolled a yellowing roll of parchment.

"When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she said. _Scottish_, Leon guessed from her accent. _The way my uncle talks about the Scots, I wouldn't want to anger this woman…_

"When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table." she continued. Glancing at the list, she called, "Ackerley, Stewart!"

When the nervous boy came forth, sat down on the stool, and placed the sorting hat upon his head, it called, "RAVENCLAW!"

Following Stewart Ackerley as he tremblingly walked to his corresponding, clapping table, Leon saw that Ravenclaw was the table full of blue-scarf-clad students. The parchment noted they contained the more intelligent students, the brainier ones.

The next student to be sorted, Malcolm Baddock, was placed in Slytherin, the silver-scarved students. Slytherin was the house of the conniving, the opportunistic, the ambitious, as the parchment once again marked.

Two more first-years (Eleanor Branstone and Owen Cauldwell) were sorted into Hufflepuff. Those within that golden House were of the loyal, hard-working, and honest class – in short, moral people.

Young Dennis Creevey was the first to be in Gryffindor, the scarlet House of bravery, courage, valor – the sort of things Leon's grandfather expected him to have even in the worst of times.

The sorting of first-years continued for several more minutes.

While waiting for the sorting to finish, and for his insertion into the castle to begin, Leon wondered what House he could be in. As far as he could tell, Leon was not that intelligent or witty, he was not that cunning, and he got certainly wasn't hard-working. _So I'd be in Gryffindor_, he concluded, at least noting that the table of the scarlet-clad students was the most boisterous and loudest of them.

When the sorting finished, the Scottish witch took away the hat and stool out of the hall, and another person stood up at the staff table – an even taller, aged wizard who seemed to radiate an aura of calm, with long silver hair plus mustache and even longer silver beard, eyes alight behind his half-moon spectacles as he beamed at all the students.

"I have only two words to say to you: _tuck in_." Leon heard the wizard say, his voice so loud it could be heard clearly even over the turbulent winds and whipping rain assaulting the castle.

And without further word, and to the hidden Muggle's further amazement with magic, food suddenly materialized before every plate on every table, and the feast began, the wonderful feast of so many delicious and amazing food.

Leon was not just envious as he watched the students and staff digging in, he was _indignated_.

_20:29:56_

_When is this… going to end…_ Leon thought, in complete culinary agony, intensified by the tantalizingly delightful smells of dessert wafting into his ears. _When…_

And it ended. Four seconds after this mental lamenting, it ended.

Energy and interest finally rushing in waves back into Leon, he straightened back up as he realized he heard no chatter - the desserts were gone (damn it, even the treacle tart dematerialized) and the silver-haired wizard had once again gotten to his feet.

"So! Now that we are all fed and watered!" he began; Leon thought, just a thought, that he heard a very faint, indignated "hmph!" while he spoke.

"I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices." he continued.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs."

Wait, what? the French boy paused, puzzled. _Fanged_ Frisbees? And on second thought, what are _Frisbees_ anyway?

"The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year."

Leon supposed the village he was talking about was the quaint little town he saw briefly while leaving the station earlier.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

At this, an infuriated uproar sparked throughout the hall; Quidditch, whatever it was, was apparently very important. The student table closest to the wizard – the Gryffindors – were the angriest of all, some standing up in protest. The sagely-looking wizard raised a hand once again, suppressing the cacophony just slightly and the students sat down reluctantly, and continued,

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts —"

A particularly formidable blast of thunder tore the sky, throwing the castle into illuminated focus momentarily; in that same moment, Leon thought the bolt was what caused the wizard to stop talking. Turning back into the hall, however, he saw that the doors had burst open, and a tall, hunched man leaning heavily on a wooden staff striding across the stone towards the staff table. The grizzled man looked like a war veteran, his scarred and pitted face and long, bearlike gray hair casting dark, ominous shadows on his person. Based on an alternating _clunk_ as the man hobbled to the tall wizard, Leon deduced the newcomer had a false leg. The man projected an air of wariness, of vigilance. The students were all staring at him; the man paid them no attention, intent as he was on moving forward.

Leon watched as the man reached the sage, shook his hand, and exchanged a few words. Afterwards, the man walked to the staff table, sat down, and began eating, still oblivious to the stares of practically everyone else.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said the sage, breaking the silence. "Professor Moody."

A new teacher, and one that looked like he just walked out of nineteen-forty-two Seelow – God only knows what sorts of punishments he doled out, let alone what he _taught_. Defense Against the _Dark Arts_?

Leon wondered what Professor Moody looked like in his youth, and what sorts of sick shit the Dark Arts were to do that to him.

When he drank from a flask chained to his belt, Leon saw that Professor Moody's right leg was not a flesh leg, rather, it was a wooden peg and a clawed foot; it did nothing to improve Leon's perception of the Dark Arts.

"As I was saying," said Old Wise Man with a knowing grin even as the students still held their gaze at Professor Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" a loud, dumbfounded voice cut across the hall. Leon glanced for the source, tracking it to a very stunned redheaded boy, half arisen out of his seat at the Gryffindor table.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar …"

Leon noted the Scottish witch from earlier cleared her throat rather audibly.

"Er — but maybe this is not the time … no …" again spoke Old Man Sage, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament … well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang."

_Beauxbatons_! Leon thought with a flash of fury. That was the whole reason his parents were colder to him, the reason he ran away. _They thought little Selina, magical little _Selina_ was _so _much more important than him, he wasn't a wizard! Why give him the attention, they already have a witch!_

_And Durmstrang… _he didn't know where that school was, but it sounded German. Eastern European, at the least.

"A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

_Death toll?_ Once again, Leon wondered what degree of insane wizards and witches were on as a whole.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Sage was saying, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October" – aw, hell, he might just see that despicable little _pest_ again - "and in addition, the Salem Institute, an American academy, has agreed to bear witness to the Tournament, so they can evaluate their chances of participating should there be future Tournaments. The selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

The parchment had given Leon a quick pointer on Wizarding currency; _Holy hell_, half of a thousand golden Galleons was enough money to buy a whole cruise ship and he'd still have change of silver Sickles and bronze Knuts. He found himself wishing he was a wizard, and he started half-musing about what sorts of escapades he'd participate in as a one. He realized, with a sobering sting, that his parents probably also daydreamed about these sorts of things.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," Old Man continued on, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration."

A sudden desire to fast-forward three years overcame Leon in addition to his earlier fantasy.

Just as when Sage had announced that the Quodpot-or-whatever Cup would not take place, outraged voices erupted in the hall. Nevertheless, the man continued on in a louder voice, "This is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."

"The delegations from the three schools will be arriving in October," – oh, so Leon had two months before the possibility of seeing that little prick again – "and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your wholehearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!" Sage concluded with a smile.

With that, the students stood up. Other older-looking students got to action, these ones with gleaming badges on their robes, and led them into groups out of the hall back through the double doors.

So he waited until it was almost midnight.

_23:16:44_

The clock was ticking. It was now or never.

As silently as he could dare, Leon stood and climbed over the window, careful not to make too much noise…

_Come on…_ he prayed, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest…

_Just about… there… _

With a tentative tap, Leon placed one worn sneaker-clad foot on the stone floor of Hogwarts' hall, then pressed both feet upon the stone bricks.

Leon waited, breath held. A second passed… two… three… _There_. A five-note blip in his brain told him that he was in. He breathed a deep, quivering sigh of utmost relief.

The crimson armband that came in the parcel – a Arcterine, a note tagged to the armband labeled – had done its job. Leon was now permanently within the not just castle but also its expansive grounds without triggering or activating any of the thousands of enchantments laid to protect the school's secrecy. He had done it. He was a Muggle in a wizard's den. He had infiltrated Hogwarts.

Wasting no time, Leon perused the sheet of parchment in his hands. A perfect ink circle half a foot wide filled with black dots and lines constantly shifted under his view from within the cloak, a dot tagged "Leon Fontaine" standing in an elegant outline of the "Great Hall". The only other dots in the circle were two: a dot, the words tagged to it marking it as "Argus Filch" slowly drifting across a corridor two floors above him, and another dot, tagged "Mrs. Norris", this one currently prowling the dungeons. He was safe…

But then another dot caught his attention – this one tagged "Peeves" - and this dot was hurtling towards the Great Hall at a breakneck speed.

Leon had about two and a half seconds' warning before mad cackling reached his ears. The same opaque poltergeist from earlier (the parchment had explained the various kinds of apparitions within the Wizarding world) rocketed into the wide berth of space above the Great Hall, his cackling intensifying. When he got ten feet to where Leon was crouching, he stopped his flight and his madman's laughter ceased immediately.

"Who's there?" he snarled, eyes darting from side-to-side, "I know someone's there! Peevsie always knows! No use trying to hide, you know!"

Terror gripped Leon's heart like an icy claw. The parchment had failed to tell him that poltergeists (or at least Peeves) could detect even invisible entities. His heart raced again, blood pounding in his ears.

Knowing he only had several seconds to act, Leon pocketed his sensor-map. The manual parchment had told him to take one of the shiny black cubes from a little tin from the parcel when he was in desperate need. Now, not wanting to risk it, Leon felt around in his jeans pocket, snatching one out. In the darkness, he could not see the square-inch sized coal-black cube, but he felt its shape changing… the edges softened, and before he knew it, he had a plastic cylinder in his hand, one with a narrow, holey middle and capped with hexagonal shapes. He knew what it was, and what to do with it, but he was incredulous at how he'd pull it off _in the middle of the night_!

Peeves was coming closer. "I ought to call old Filch or his wee little kitty if something smells fishy…!" he called maliciously. Leon had no time…

_I'm going to regret this_, he thought.

He yanked a long pin off the cylinder and tossed it towards Peeves. The poltergeist spotted it, swooped down, and caught the hissing cylinder in one clawlike hand, uttering a loud bark of laughter in triumph.

"Aha! Now Peevsie knows who it is!"

He rose up a few feet higher, puffing his chest slightly. "STUDENTS-"

_BANG._

Leon tossed his thick hood over his head and wildly dove into an alcove near the wall, traveling cloak flapping, just as the flashbang blast erupted from within Peeves' fingers. A sharp, drilling ring pierced Leon's ears as he hit the stone floor, his mind dancing with a pulsing throb in his temple and swirls spiraling in a white sea inside his eyelids, now pressed shut, and for a few agonizing seconds all Leon could do was lay debilitated on the ground silently, biting his tongue to keep from screaming…

A few seconds passed, nothing but the ring persistent in his ears, his vertigo viciously assaulting his senses…

More moments passed. He could now faintly hear the enraged yelling of a voice who he assumed to belong to the Argus Filch mentioned earlier, repeatedly spluttering out "PEEVES!" that echoed in the Great Hall, and Peeves' enraged screaming, while a third voice, this one deeper and hoarser than the previous two, more silent, but with clear fury and some bitterness, surfaced.

When the pain subsided to a manageable level, Leon, with great effort, rolled over onto his stomach, then got up, panting heavily. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his limbs ached (his head worst of all), but he had a mission. Stealthily exiting the alcove, he saw a ragged old man, quivering with absolute anger stomping towards the staff table, an equally infuriated, gaunt, blood-stained ghost gliding alongside him. Peeves had apparently stormed out of the opposite end of the hall (after he had recovered from his spectacular stun; even poltergeists can feel a point-blank flashbang to the face) while Filch and the ghost were hot on his heels.

Hoping nobody else was woken up by his stun grenade, he hastily unfolded the map. Thin, snaking arrows now told him where to go – _turn left here_ or _wait until the stair shifts to the right_. Almost sprinting with fear and apprehension, Leon followed the directions, rushing out into the entrance hall. He wanted to get to his destination as quickly as possible, but he was afraid the clicking and clanking of his gear would give him away.

Several flights of stairs upward. Dashing down carpeted corridors. Third floor…

Leon burst through more and more doors, eventually coming to a corridor lined with medieval suits of armor on the left side, though polished as cleanly as if they had just left the blacksmith yesterday… where is it, where is it… it was somewhere on the other, far end, inconveniently…

There! - a little square portrait hung low, a few inches from the ground and almost hidden between the corner wall and a pedestal with the right-furthest suit of armor. From the thin beam of moonlight glinting off its wicked pike, Leon knelt beside the portrait.

"Hey! _Hey_! It's Vesta, right?"

No response. Leon felt frustration joining his terror.

"Wake up!" he whispered frantically. He could hear furious, muttered oaths behind him, too close for comfort - Peeves was on the hunt, seeking revenge on his assailant.

The portrait's sole occupant, a raven-haired young woman, dozed on, apparently oblivious to Leon's wild muttering. Breathing intensifying, Leon tried to remember what to say from the parchment, thinking frenetically.

_What was it, what was it? Damn it, why'd I have to forget now?_ Leon thought, his eyes shut in concentration.

Peeves had entered the armor gallery, rambling with enraged incoherence…

"_Aeolus!_" Leon suddenly called, as loudly as he could dare. The portrait, Vesta, opened her eyes at this word. She gave Leon an irritated, affronted look as if he had just belched loudly.

"You're late, Fontaine." Vesta sneered softly, disdain twisting her sharp features as her portrait swung forward, revealing a tiny opening just large enough to crawl into.

Leon ignored her as he dropped his backpack and rifle. Getting on all fours, he wormed his way through the hole, then turned around and pulled the rest of his belongings in with him. Vesta's portrait swung shut behind him immediately the moment the last backpack string slid through.

Leon looked around at his new room. Sure, it was no bigger than his room back in Marseilles, and was just a handful of modest furniture above a soft, fluffy carpet, but it certainly was something.

_September 2__nd__, 1994_

_07:00:00_

Reluctantly, Leon opened his eyes. A warm little ray of sunlight poked through his only window, bathing his right cheek with radiant, comfortable warmth and illuminating little airborne particles in the room. The rest of his body was cocooned in soft, silky red sheets, his thin form curled into the foamlike mattress he lay upon. His rifle, always in his watchful eye, was still there beside the mattress, some bullet clips strewn near it.

Allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden intake of brightness, he sat upright for a few moments. Once clarity returned to his vision, he looked around at his new home for the first time. The door – hole, rather - was to his left, in the middle of the stone wall, and three feet away from his bed was an mahogany chest of four drawers, set below the window, which stretched the whole width of the far wall. To his left, lining the wall opposite the corner the mattress was laid, was a low and long oak table and two accompanying little chairs. A gilded glass chandelier hung above him from a high ceiling, though the candles were currently unlit. Every inch of the floor was covered in a smooth, violet velvet carpet. A small alcove hidden by a black curtain, he knew, held a ceramic toilet with an integrated bidet, and a little basin for personal washing.

His backpack was perched above the drawers, still bulging with his possessions. The paper radar lay open, though creased with folds that divided the paper in fourths, beside the backpack.

Leon didn't know what to do yet. The parchment told him that his meals would come three times a day, from an owl that would swoop in through the window, but no such bird was here. A few moments of resisted temptation, in which the blankets seemed to get only warmer and even more comfortable, later, Leon slid out of from between the sheets.

He checked the radar. Nobody except two dots, tagged "Harry Potter" and "Pansy Parkinson", moved down the armor gallery; aside from them, the corridor was deserted.

Leon scanned the rest of the circle. All clear, but no owls either.

He sighed. Apparently breakfast would be late.

_But what to do, what to do_… he mused. He settled on shooting targets out his window, but as he clutched the worn, smooth barrel of his rifle, he caught a glimpse outside the glass panel – it had a clear view of a large grassy field surrounded by a wide elliptical ring of fifty-foot-high raised grandstands. At either end of the pitch were three goalposts topped by hoops; wizards mounted on airborne broomsticks were bulleting over and around the field, some passing a large crimson ball back and forth and others swinging short bats at two dark gray orbs rocketing at the players, one on each side of the pitch. Two other wizards cruised higher than the rest with heads craning downward, apparently searching for something.

With a slight twinge of dismay, Leon put down the firearm.

A few more minutes of brooding over what to do next, he unzipped his backpack open, taking out seven of the black cubes that had saved his life last night. He considered taking his rifle, but perhaps that could wait. The only other things he pulled out were his cloak, invisibility armband, and map. A change of clothes later, he strode across the little room to the hole, unlatching the portrait hatch to wander the castle in stealth, to take an unknown tour of his new home.

As he closed the wooden panel shut behind him, the window rattled slightly with a _tap_-_tap_-_tap_. His owl was here late.

At least the parchment told Leon how to access the kitchens.


	3. Melting Cauldron

**II – Melting Cauldron**

_Leon Fontaine_

_Just outside of Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, United Kingdom_

_October 30__th__, 1994_

_17:14:59_

Peering out from the rim of his snow-encrusted hood, Leon surveyed the congregated students and staff. Thin clouds of mist constantly ascended from the large mass of students assembled (naturally, divided into four large groups and a smaller cluster of staff) on the grounds. Idle chatter echoed all around the grounds. He could tell they were eager, it was showing on their faces as he surveyed the front of the castle. He peered with an eagle's eye through his rifle's mounted scope (the rifle was unloaded, of course). His hands kept surreptitiously turning a knob on the side of the black cylinder; his view of the assembled students shifted accordingly.

Some of the Hogwarts students were shifting about uncomfortably in the biting cold, others simply standing there, trying their best to suck it up, but as a whole, the mass of people were all eager for what was to come – the foreign schools of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Salem were due to arrive anytime soon.

So, of course, they were oblivious to the French Muggle carefully kneeling on a narrow ledge, in full panoramic view of everything and everyone. They were oblivious to his phantom presence at the school, in which he was supposed to be forbidden to enter, much less clap eyes upon it. And foremost, they were oblivious to this French boy's combined apprehension and resentment as he, too, waited for the delegations to arrive.

Discomfort gnawed at Leon. He had an unsettling knot in his gut, a knot that seemed to intensify by every second. He knew he should be excited at what was to come, as he'd be seeing not one, not two, but _four_ schools of magic in due time – on top of his long-standing fascination with foreign cultures – but Selina kept appearing in his mind. Tension kept his stomach in a tight ache; he could barely keep a steady grip on his rifle, though the temperature was probably not helping. He could pay no attention to what the students were doing now, so he put down his gun and just brooded silently, staring at nothing in particular.

He knew it was not Selina's fault, that it was his parent's fault for showing blatant favoritism and disappointment at how their son could not do magic (hell, the least they could've done was not make it so obvious) and that she was, at this point, dearly missing her brother. She also obviously had pieced together why he had ran away a long time ago, and by now, with the combined blessing and curse of prolonged contemplation over it, the guilt was turning quite unbearable for Leon.

And yet other thoughts echoed on his mind: "_…you've disappointed us again, Leon… we knew we should've had Selina do it… at least Selina does it right… only Selina would know what to do here… if only _you_ were a wizard, too… why can't you be more like Selina?… Selina _this_, Selina _that_…"_

Another surge of furious resentment rushed through Leon as the voices of his mother and father reverberated again and again in his head. Five years of relegation to Selina's cold shadow brought back spikes of pure anger, Once again, hatred and… and… _jealousy_ for his thrice-blasted sister arose again, along with it, the hot, burning feeling of bile coming up his throat. Leon barely fought it off – it would not do to vomit in front of foreign wizards.

What if Selina was among the delegation from Beauxbatons? - and what if she discovered him? Aw hell, that'd make for some wonderful reunion. Here he was a, Muggle, in the midst of _four _schools of wizards, most of which could probably vaporize – or much worse – him in a heartbeat if and once his presence is revealed.

He'd have to put up with her if she'll be here.

Feeling defeated, Leon slumped back on the cool stone bricks, utterly hopeless. He watched as his breath formed wispy trails of frost, escaping from out of the invisibility cloak's hood. The frustration in his gut was now joined by an ice-cold glacier, even more frigid than the air in the rapidly setting winter sun.

_I feel like hammered shit. Probably look like it, too._

With another quivered, exhausted sigh, Leon leaned forward slightly again, hoping he could burn out his sorrows with the new opportunities to further his knowledge of magic and all to do with it. With nothing else, he raised his rifle scope to his eye again and continued analyzing the awaiting students.

Minutes passed, with not much event. With much agitation and frustration, Leon began breathing shallower and faster, his face slowly becoming contorted with an irritated scowl, the way it always did when his patience ran out (which is to say, all the time, and his lack of such a virtue constantly interfered with his at-a-standstill marksmanship)

Still the clock kept ticking. Then-

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!" came Sage's – Dumbledore's, Leon mentally corrected himself, chancing upon the name in a staff roster his information parchment listed – voice above all those present. The students immediately started craning their necks to look about in all directions, the same question of "_where?_" all upon their mouths.

"There!" called one student, his finger upon the forest nearby. As a shimmering sea of multicolored hair, the students simultaneously turned their heads to where he was pointing; likewise, Leon looked as well.

A giant, dark shape was rapidly gliding over the forest tops, growing ever larger as it made approach towards the castle grounds.

Leon's initial, idiotic thought was _it's either a God damned Lancaster or a B-17_, remembering the massive British and American bombers his grandfather lovingly praised in his countless retellings of Paris' liberation to his grandson; this thought was quickly disregarded when Leon remembered that even half-obsolete nineteen-forties era aircraft would not fly at all in an area so thick with magic – it would fry all electronics onboard. Neither was Leon the only one to jump to a wild conclusion - one student screeched something about dragons, and another called out that it was a flying house.

A few seconds later, the airborne shape made itself out to be a carriage pulled by horses, in the castle's clear firelight, and was more titanic than Leon thought, as big as a small manor and twelve equally gigantic palomino pegasi soaring above the treelines. Leon watched as the carriage soared towards the assembled students at speeds not very possible for such an object. Barely following the blue carriage's path across the sky, he turned to see the front rows of the assembled students lose their inhibitions and wildly dive for cover.

The horses slammed into the ground hooves first, then with a forty-ninth, far louder crash, the coach touched down on massive wheels, bouncing and bobbing for a few moments before coming to a standstill. A crest of two crossed golden wands shooting six sparks shone on the door, then it swung open.

Out came a boy, dressed in light blue robes. He promptly stepped down off the carriage, fidgeted with something behind the golden rails below the door, then stepped back, pulling with him a set of gilded stairs.

A big black high-heel swung out of the carriage, then another, and an incredibly large woman – roughly the same height was Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper – stepped out of the carriage. She had slightly tanned skin that framed black eyes and a long crooked nose not unlike Dumbledore's. Her equally dark hair was pinned into a tight bun behind her head, and she was clad in elegant satin robes of a same color and gleaming opal jewelry.

The lone woman strode up a path the Hogwarts students cleared for her, up to where Dumbledore stood, who was clapping as the assembled students followed likewise, and she stopped before the Headmaster. He bent forward just slightly and kissed the top of her hand.

They exchanged some inaudible words, then, the giant woman motioned a hand behind her; following the movement, Leon saw standing and shivering in her long shadow, approximately forty students. All of them wore pale blue robes and silky hats, some with shawls or scarves wrapped around their heads.

_Oh God, please… please don't let Selina be with them…_

The apprehension was leeching out all feeling and warmth out of Leon's body; his frosty, numb fingers could barely feel the scope's knob as he zoomed in just a bit further. Searching the Beauxbatons students, he quickly swept sights over the first front groups. No sign of Selina.

As Leon swung his view down to the rear group, he caught a glint of familiar blonde hair. All the last vestiges of heat vanished from his body, leaving him like an unfeeling, frozen corpse.

There. The little bastard was standing next to two other girls and a boy all about her age, apparently murmuring amongst themselves. For a few moments, Leon felt subzero, with his apprehension at her potential reaction if he ever made his presence known here, and his shame and guilt at what he had done.

Then, lightning-sudden, Leon's cold fear disappeared. And as suddenly as his previous emotion vaporized, a new, more intense emotion overcame him: hatred. Fury, resentment, and envy at the sight of Selina flooded his being, and where there was once icy numbness there was now burning, fiery rage. Every inch of his body surged with a fierce, pounding rush as he remembered what she had indirectly put him through – and with every memory of his parents belittling, dehumanizing, or deprioritizing him under Selina, the furnace within him burned only brighter and more intense. True to his ever-sardonic brain, Leon supposed he would burst into flames like a phoenix if he got a tick angrier.

After what seemed like infinity, Leon's rage subsided enough for him to refocus his thoughts. Apparently, the Beauxbatons students had, while Leon was mentally thrashing around on the ledge in his utter piss and fury, all filed into the Great Hall. He now noticed the Hogwarts crowd was still patiently, if grudgingly, awaiting the Durmstrang party. In addition, there was now a faint rumbling-and-suctioning noise that permeated the still night air – the sound created an ominous, unsettling tension that even Leon could feel.

A shimmering disturbance in the nearby lake caught Leon's eye; he and the rest of the students and staff all looked as they caught on. The Black Lake was now slightly restless, its waters lapping at the sandy, rocky shores. As the onlookers watched, the black, shifting sheets of the lake whipped about further as the noise intensified. It seemed like the lake was a giant bathtub, and one had pulled the drainplug off; indeed, a whirlpool had formed in the midst of the waters.

When a long, low shape slowly rose out of the whirlpool's chaotic heart, Leon once again proved himself true to his grandfather by, for a few fleeting seconds, jumped to the conclusion that it was a U-boat, the sinister German submarines from an oft-referenced time.

_Well, they did mention Durmstrang being more or less in the Nordic area…_

It was obviously a seagoing vessel, but Leon did not have the benefit of being out of the castle's shadows to see clearly what it was; his rifle scope did not illuminate his target, only allowed a closer view.

In brief, irritated hindsight, Leon remembered this is why he would not be in Ravenclaw, had he been a wizard and attended this school.

As the unidentified vessel drifted ominously forward, it finally slid into Leon's clearer view, and he saw it was a medieval-era sailing ship (fitting, perhaps, considering Leon's shrewd observation that the Wizarding world as a whole seemed to be at a technological standstill from the fifteen-hundreds) with a rather ghastly tone to it, its hull giving off a faint silver glow – maybe it was just the moonlight – and lined with portholes, the glass gleaming in a somewhat macabre way. The sail was emblazoned with an insignia of a double-headed firebird perched on a bovine's skull, its wings intercrossing with the skull's long horns. Above both animals were two crisscrossing banners, both in indecipherable Cyrillic.

The Durmstrang vessel made landfall on the lakeshore, its crew hurling an anchor overboard and extending a wooden bridge to the shore. As with the French school previously, forty-or-so students, these ones clad in maroon robes and furry cloaks strode down the plank in an orderly line, led by a man tall and lanky like Dumbledore, and had thin, short black hair and a curled goatee in maroon wizard's robes and a gray furred cloak.

Just as the head of Beauxbatons conversed with Dumbledore, so too did this man. They shook hands, conversed for a few seconds, then beckoned to an older boy behind him. This student was rather burly and sullen-looking with a shaved head and drooping nose, his hands in his robes pockets and hunched forward; when this boy entered full view of the Hogwarts students, Leon noticed a subtle consternation amongst them, whispering and gesturing towards this particular student. He sensed that the surly teen was someone important, a celebrity.

Seconds later, Dumbledore stepped sideways courteously, and with a cordial nod, the Durmstrang headmaster led his students into the Great Hall in two formal lines.

The Hogwarts students waited still. Two more schools to arrive.

Another thought pulled Leon abruptly from his deliberations – the stirring noises within the lake had not subsided at all. A second, wider but shallower whirlpool formed again in the middle of the lake, and the students watched with anticipation again as the lakewaters frothed and bubbled again. As per the Durmstrang vessel, a long, low and dark shape arose from within the swirling mass. Two sealed columns side-by-side stuck up from the middle of the vessel's deck, which was surrounded by aluminum railings, periodically emitting puffs of black smoke as it steamed rapidly towards the shore, a frothing white cone in its wake.

Leon recognized the vessel as an American Civil War-era ironclad, the monstrous metal-plated gunboats he remembered from an American history documentary as a child. On the low, sloping gun deck, where there would be gunports for broadside cannons to fire out of, there were instead square glass windows that bathed the surrounding water in a soft, warm goldenrod light. An indigo banner flew in the wind from a thin spire just behind the smokestacks that read The Salem University of Magic, emblazoned over a logo of navy blue diving bird-of-prey inside a white crescent moon. The American ironclad sailed forward and stopped at the gravel-lined shore perhaps fifteen to twenty meters besides from the Durmstrang ship. Two panels on the front of the sleek, dark gray gunboat slid open, and a long, narrow steel bridge extended out onto the gravel.

Once again, forty-or-so students emerged and strode down the extended platform, two single-file lines of boys and girls. They were wearing dark brown robes, and their Venetian loafers produced soft thuds on the metal ramp. They were led by a rather tall-but-not-as-tall-as-the-Beauxbatons-headmaster, brunette young woman (Leon felt her bushy brown hair complemented their uniforms rather nicely) as they marched up the path to the Hogwarts students.

The Salem crew finally stopped before Dumbledore as the previous schools did, their headmaster held short conversation with him, then led her charges past Dumbledore stepped aside to let them pass. As before, the Salem students marched into the Great Hall, the Hogwarts students following suit shortly afterwards.

_18:23:03_

Once again, Leon found himself perched in the exact same spot on his arrival at Hogwarts two months ago. He now watched as the Hogwarts students sat down on their corresponding chairs first. The Beauxbatons students followed suit, all deciding to join the Ravenclaw table, the Durmstrang students made themselves comfortable at the Slytherin table, and the Salem students seated at the Hufflepuff table. Their reactions contrasted as well – some the French students were silently sneering and scoffing at Hogwarts' appearance and people, while the European Easterners were looking around and at the cutlery with expressions of awe and curiosity, and the American lot inquisitively examined the students, eager as they were to make new friends while they chattered amongst themselves.

Dumbledore came in the room last, along with the heads of the two other schools - the Beauxbatons students stood up upon their headmaster entering the room, not sitting down until she did at the staff table. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — most particularly — guests," he began, beaming around at the foreign students. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable. The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"

_God damnit_, Leon thought with a very familiar feeling as food and drink materialized as custom before the three schools. _Here we go again! Feast yourselves to self-destruction while my stomach and I just _happily_ sit down and watch you stuff yourselves!_

If it weren't for the Triwizard Tournament, Leon would've left to his room or succumbed to the urge to nick some food right then and there – his daily meals were not the most savory of foods.

_21:17:75_

Finally, the feast was over. After the several courses were finished, Dumbledore once again stood up and addressed all assembled company.

"The moment has come. The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket, just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation" - indicating a stiff, upright old man with a well-groomed toothbrush mustache, who paid no attention to the polite applause directed at him - "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." - a middle-aged man with blond hair and schoolboy's face, his bright blue eyes illuminating with a cheery light as he waved back to his more enthusiastic applause - "Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and Mistress Alexandria on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."

A brief, silent pause, then, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

The caretaker came forward with an ancient, jewel-encrusted wooden chest in his arms, then placed it carefully on a small table before Dumbledore.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," continued Dumbledore, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways … their magical prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction — and, of course, their ability to cope with danger. As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

Leon watched, all his interest as Dumbledore tapped the chest thrice, upon which it opened with creaks of protest, then pulled out of it a plain wooden chalice. The goblet was filled with pale blue flames, bathing the Great Hall in a soft azure glow. He placed it above the now closed casket, in plain sight of everyone within the Great Hall.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete. To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line. Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

At that, present company began standing up and filing out of the hall. Leon followed suit, headed to his room to contemplate the day's events – and, of course, more brooding about Selina.

Not the type he expected, either.


	4. The Triwizard Tournament

**III – The Triwizard Tournament**

_Leon Fontaine_

_Inside the Great Hall in Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, United Kingdom_

_October 31st, 1994_

_19:25:52_

_ Who dares really does wins_, Leon reflected, as he, with excellent dexterity, snatched another turkey leg off of a golden platter, his arm just barely brushing the top of a redheaded Hufflepuff girl who was currently lost in energetic conversation with another Hufflepuff girl, this one blonde.

In his irritation, Leon had decided to stomach up the courage and headed to the Great Hall in the midst of the Halloween feast, wanting to claim a taste of Hogwarts food (with the added bonus of foreign dishes, on account of present delegations) – and the cuisine truly did not disappoint. Tonight, the hall was adorned with jack-o-lanterns, macabre-looking candlesticks, and other ghoulish decorum. The students, from all four schools, were enjoying the food as usual (though perhaps not so much with the Beauxbatons company), but there was excitement and anxiety in the air – everyone was eager to see the results for the Triwizard Tournament. The Goblet of Fire, still in its perch, now presently filled with the names of prospective champions, was ready at any moment to eject the names of those it had judged worthy of competing in the prestigious competition.

Finishing the turkey leg, Leon tossed the stripped bone with marksman's precision, landing on the plate of another Hufflepuff curly-haired boy, but he was too busy in deep discussion with his tablemates to notice. Moving on, Leon then strode over to the Gryffindor table, having just spotted a rather appealing-looking bowl of bouillabaisse – seafood stew Leon recognized all too well from many a dinner his mother prepared - however, before he could get to it first, a Beauxbatons student, a blonde witch with noticeably pretty features, had reached the table and asked for it first. Grumbling with irritation, he doubled back to the Slytherin table, where he stopped to filch a little plate of kroppkakor, savoring the new, exotic taste of potato dumplings and the crisp onions and bacon within.

A long thirty minutes later, once he had his fill of a medley of four distinct types of cuisine, Leon, still hidden, returned to his seat, an inconspicuous, upside-down cauldron facing the Great Hall behind the staff table. To his left was a threshold leading to a side chamber, presumably where the selected champions would go to. The chatter in the hall quieted down as Dumbledore rose to his feet. So did the other three heads of the foreign schools (another parchment perusal labeled the giant woman, the head of Beauxbatons, as Madame Olympe Maxime, while the shady-looking head of Durmstrang was tagged Professor Igor Karkaroff, and the uptight head of Salem was Mistress Athena Alexandria) and Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions."

Dumbledore then waved his wand on the hall, plunging the hall into darkness sans the brilliant cerulean cast of the Goblet of Fire. He strode up to the flaming chalice, and for a few seconds, nothing happened…

Then, the wooden cup's azure glow turned a deep maroon and began emitting sparks. The students and staff waited with many a held breath, every eye on the ignited goblet. A long tongue of flame slithered out of the goblet's mouth, and with it a singed piece of parchment.

Dumbledore snatched it, read it, and called out, "The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum."

The Durmstrang students at the Slytherin table cheered for their champion, who, Leon realized, was the celebrity that he saw earlier. Viktor Krum stood, with a slight slouch, and strode over to the staff table. As he approached the invisible Leon, the latter noted the former's thick eyebrows, surly expression before he turned right and disappeared into the doorway beside Leon.

Once again, the chalice's fires changed color, and ejected another piece of parchment. Dumbledore repeated his earlier procedure, this time declaring, "The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!"

Instinctively looking towards the corresponding school, again at the Ravenclaw table, Leon saw that Fleur Delacour was a tall, blonde, and very beautiful-looking witch; his mischievous smirk disappeared a second later when he remembered she was the one who stole the bouillabaisse before he could. She followed the same route as Viktor Krum – the closer she got to Leon, the more attractive she seemed to get – and also entered the chamber.

And for a third time, the goblet's flames reddened, a final – or so – piece of parchment rocketed out of the dancing, fingerlike flames. For a final time, Dumbledore declared, "The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!"

Amid the thunderous crash of cheering and stamping from the Hufflepuff table, so rose a pale, brown-haired boy, who was beaming with a half-incredulous, half-disbelieving expression. He almost jogged to the designated champion's chamber with excitement, and the still-sonorous applause that followed him as he joined Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour took the better part of six minutes to die down.

Finally, Dumbledore addressed the crowd once again. ""Excellent! Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, as well as our guests from Salem, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —"

However, the goblet had once again shifted to scarlet, and long tendrils of flame arced out of the cup for the fourth time. With bemused curiosity and slight surprise, Leon, eyes narrowed, leaned forward in intense interest; Dumbledore had only mentioned three champions. The rest of the school followed likewise, apparently the same question in their heads.

Grabbing the parchment with one hand, Dumbledore read it. His face was impassive – and moments passed as the students waited with bated breath.

And finally - "_Harry Potter_."

_20:04:20_

For a few seconds, there was nothing but a dead silence, so quiet one could hear the scuttling of a beetle on the stone floor. Then, a low stirring filled Leon's ears. Whisperings and mutterings cropped up here and there, but soon the whole hall was a cacophony of buzzing. Leon glanced at the staff table. The staff all had either shocked or pensive expressions on their faces, none speaking. Leon narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms; this was going to be interesting.

The Scottish witch – Professor McGonagall, as the parchment had labeled - abruptly stood from the staff table and bustled over to Dumbledore to whisper something in his ear. He bent slightly backward, intently listening to her words and a slight frown on his face. He nodded to her.

Professor McGonagall then turned and sat down at her earlier seat as Dumbledore stiffened straight again. He called out to the crowd, "Harry Potter! Harry! Up here, if you please!"

Suddenly Leon saw a skinny boy his age, with a mat of thick black hair and glasses rise from the Gryffindor table, shivering. He stepped forward, tripped somewhat, then shakingly and with a completely stunned expression on his face. The entire hall was staring at him, astonished, some students at the rear standing to get a clearer view of him. Harry Potter shambled forward and approached Dumbledore, finally stopping in front of the sagely wizard, his emerald eyes wide in complete shock and questioning.

"Well … through the door, Harry…" he said, expressionless. The messy-haired boy complied, and continued past Dumbledore, past Leon, all eyes on him.

_Interesting_, Leon thought as Potter walked past him, sweating lightly, into the gray threshold beside the seated French boy. _Hogwarts' chances of winning have just been doubled… and that kid was definitely not seventeen or over – those two redheaded boys earlier can testify to that… _Leon was referring to the pair of twins he had witnessed earlier, who looked just barely below seventeen, in an attempt to overpass the barrier Dumbledore had set around the Goblet of Fire to keep out underage contenders. They had, from what Leon heard, imbibed aging potions, but failed to do their mission – the age line repulsed them out, though they did grow a set of spectacular silver beards along the way.

_This'll turn out to be quite something to look forward to…_ he mused further. _Four champions. Four valiant gladiators _– there was no other word for it; these four were facing imminent death for entertainment – _to face some dangers for glory and gold… How very _medieval _of them_, Leon decided. Then again, the Wizarding world _was_ stuck in the fifteen-hundreds, and Leon wryly decided their bullshit _traditions_ would be as outdated and obsolete as their morals - their decorative tastes sure showed it. Well, perhaps not the Americans, not too much; Leon noted during his observations of all four parties that the Yanks were rather amused and annoyed at the Europeans' excessive formalities.

Deciding there certainly was more to be seen and heard, Leon quickly got to his feet and managed to slip into the side chamber with Harry by a hairsbreadth just before the doors slammed shut into a small room, with three plush couches facing a crackling fire, moving portraits hanging on the walls and a rug on the floor, where the champions all were brooding. Viktor Krum was leaning on the mantelpiece, apparently lost in thought, while Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour gazed into the twisting flames.

Potter and the invisible Leon walked into the sitting room, whereupon Fleur looked up and turned to the former. Potter was clearly in absolute shock, as he stood there, looking at the three, older champions, a bewildered and apprehensive expression on his face.

"Well, what is it?" Delacour said, a slight accent across her voice. "Do they want us back in the hall?"

Harry made no reply, indeed, he did not move at all. He simply stood there, lost for words, while Leon moved and settled himself on a desolate corner of the room near the door, and leaned against the wall while he watched the exchange.

Seconds later, the door opened again behind Harry, and in came Ludo Bagman, the cheerful-faced man from earlier. "Extraordinary…" he was muttering under his breath, and he grabbed Harry by the arm and led him forward before the three champions.

"Gentlemen, lady," Bagman declared to them. "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem — the _fourth_ Triwizard champion?"

The following reactions varied: Viktor Krum straightened slightly and stared at Harry with a calculating expression. Cedric Diggory's eyebrows furrowed together as his eyes flickered back and forth from Harry to Bagman. Fleur Delacour simply smiled and said, "Oh, very funny joke, Mr. Bagman.

"Joke?" Bagman replied. "No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

"But evidently there has been a mistake," Delacour countered, now frowning. "He cannot compete. He is too young."

"Well … it is amazing," replied the blond man, looking down at Harry with an amazed smile. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet … I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage … It's down in the rules, you're obliged … Harry will just have to do the best he —"

Bagman's next words were cut off sharply as the door behind them burst open, and in strode Dumbledore, Barty Crouch, Madame Maxime, Professors Karkaroff and McGonagall, a greasy-haired and hook-nosed man named Professor Snape, and Mistress Alexandria (as well as a droning noise from the hall before Professor McGonagall shut the door).

"Madame Maxime!" Delacour called the moment her headmistress entered the room, "They are saying that this little boy is to compete also!"

Leon smirked slightly at the flickering flash of irritation on Harry's face.

Madame Maxime's hair jostled the glass chandelier above her very slightly as she straightened to her impressive height. "What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" she inquired, angered.

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," Professor Karkaroff joined in with a cold smile. "_Two_ Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions — or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" He snorted obnoxiously after that.

"_It's impossible_." Madame Maxime spat in French, though she reverted to English, "Hogwarts cannot have two champions. It is most unjust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," Professor Karkaroff continued. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

"What I'd like to know," Mistress Alexandria added, a miniscule hint of a smirk crossing her thin lips, "is how a fourteen-year-old managed to cross such a meticulously-laid out Age Line – when I myself clearly witnessed several Hogwarts students, most older than young Harry here" – she flicked a manicured hand towards the aforementioned student – "attempt to do so, only be repulsed. How, then, could he have done so? Perhaps he asked an of-age student to submit his name for him – or dare I ask, one of the _faculty_?"

"Are you implying that we have any hand in this, Alexandria?" Professor Snape drawled. "I assure you, it's no one's fault but Potter's. Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here —"

"Thank you, Severus." cut in Dumbledore sternly, silencing Professor Snape immediately. He then turned and looked down at Harry.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked.

"No." the boy replied; Professor Snape scoffed faintly.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?"

"_No_." now Professor Snape was shaking his head in disbelief.

"Ah, but of course he is lying!" snarled Madame Maxime, but Professor McGonagall objected.

"He could not have crossed the Age Line! I am sure we are all agreed on that —"

"Dumbledore must have made a mistake with the line." shrugged the former.

"It is possible, of course" Dumbledore agreed politely, though the Scottish woman did not give up.

"Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!" she burst out. "Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!" and for emphasis, Professor McGonagall glared sharply at Professor Snape.

"I still have my doubts," snapped Mistress Alexandria. "There's a reason that Age Line was drawn – are you sure that a fourteen-year-old could handle the tasks set forth? He's three years below of age, and you seriously consider putting him through tasks that most adult magicians can't handle?"

"Mr. Crouch … Mr. Bagman," asked Karkaroff, "you are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman said nothing, but turned to Crouch, who was standing out of the soft firelight throughout the exchange. His mustache quivered slightly as he thought for a moment, then said, "We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," concluded Bagman, beaming at the four headmasters.

Karkaroff still had his objections. "I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," he growled, a tightly twisted scowl on his face. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," Bagman said with a slight frown. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out — it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament —"

"— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" the Eastern European man exploded. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

A flicker in Leon's eye caused him to glance toward the door; the gruff Professor Moody was now walking into the room as he curtly said, "Empty threat, Karkaroff. You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Leon noted that Karkaroff was showing slight signs of agitation, his hands now curled into fists and scowl deepening. "Convenient? I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

"Don't you?" spoke Moody softly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone who wished to give Hogwarts _two_ bites at the apple!" shrieked Madame Maxime.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," Karkaroff purred, though Leon felt he overdid the asskissing by subsequently giving her a bow. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards —"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," Moody said, with a questioning glance at the person in question, "but … funny thing … I don't hear him saying a word. …"

Fleur Delacour stomped on the rug, crying, "Why should he complain? He has the chance to compete, hasn't he? We have all been hoping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! The honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money – this is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it," replied Moody.

The atmosphere suddenly seemed like as if it dropped in temperature several degrees. With a tense, anxiety-clouded face, Bagman bobbed up and down and uncertainly said, "Moody, old man … what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," Karkaroff dismissed disdainfully. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" Moody retorted. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet. …"

"Ah, what evidence is there of that?" accused Madame Maxime.

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament. … I'm guessing they submitted Potter's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category. …"

Leon had a slight suspicion that Mistress Alexandria now had no qualms with Harry entering the tournament; on the contrary, she seemed his entrance a satisfying substitute for an actual Salem candidate, but it was only speculation. She was apparently silently surveying at Harry with an appraising look, calculating his odds of victory.

"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody," Karkaroff taunted icily, "and a very ingenious theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously. …"

"There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage," retaliated Moody in an intimidating growl. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff — as you ought to remember. …"

"Alastor!" Dumbledore warned sharply. "How this situation arose, we do not know," he addressed all present company. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. …"

"Ah, but Dumbledore-"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

This the woman had no response to. She, Professor Snape, and Karkaroff all had infuriated expressions, but remained silent. On the other hand, Bagman was as excited as a schoolboy again.

"Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Crouch, who was silently brooding, nodded jerkily and said, "Yes, instructions. Yes … the first task … The first task is designed to test your daring," he told the four champions, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard … very important. … The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.

"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," replied Dumbledore. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

Crouch nonchalantly waved him off. "No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry. It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment. … I've left young Weatherby in charge. … Very enthusiastic … a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told. …"

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" insisted Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" added Bagman. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," Crouch barked, clearly losing his patience.

Dumbledore turned to the headmasters. "Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — Mistress Alexandria — a nightcap?"

None of the three responded; Madame Maxime was leading Delacour with a thick hand upon her shoulder and Leon could hear them conversing in machine-gun French ("_…absolutely preposterous…_" Madame Maxime was grumbling. "_…but I know you'll do better than these incompetent boys, Fleur, so do not disappoint me…_") Professor Karkaroff simply nodded to Krum, and they both left the chamber wordlessly. When the French and Eastern Europeans left, Mistress Alexandria took a few seconds to give Harry a very faint smile and mouthed "_good luck_" – upon which the boy's face became clouded with bewilderment - before turning on her heels and striding out as well. The only ones left now were Leon, Dumbledore, Cedric, and Harry.

"Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," Dumbledore beamed at both them. "I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

The two champions nodded, and left out into the now-empty Great Hall. Leon followed suit.

_November 1st, 1994_

_09:11:01_

Leon quickly figured out how miserable Potter would get the next few weeks.

After bolting down a quick breakfast of eggs, bacon, and rice and a brief bath, Leon slipped on his cloak over his freshly-cleaned clothes, crawled out through Vesta's hole with his rifle slung across his shoulder and his radar-map in one hand, open, and into the still chilly third-floor armor gallery. While he briefly felt perhaps he'd visit Ravenclaw tower as he usually would, such thoughts vanished now.

He had no such intents at the moment – he was far too interested in Harry Potter's plight and how the school handled it after his unexpected draw from the Goblet of Fire. Leon now strode down a set of stairs and into a second floor corridor, where he then hurried forward, drew level with, and absentmindedly kept pace with a group of Hufflepuff students just exiting a classroom. As he strode down the corridor with them, he was immersed in their indignated and resentful mutterings.

"I can't believe this…"

"Just one time a Hufflepuff gets to be in the spotlight, and Potter comes and ruins it all…"

"That arrogant, scumbag git, always wants the spotlight for himself…"

When the Hufflepuffs passed a cluster of Gryffindors in the hallway, they all heavily scowled at them and muttered darkly under their breaths.

In due time, Leon figured out exactly how in deep shit Harry was – two hours and several lessons later, Harry was to be found in the Great Hall during lunch, seething and steaming at the Gryffindor table. Apparently, even the Ravenclaws turned on him – they considered Cedric a more desirable champion as well as assuming that Harry was pulling a stupid, attention-seeking stunt - and naturally the Slytherins were hellbent on antagonizing Harry as much as they could (and the supposedly-nonbiased Professor Snape sure as hell wasn't helping; on the contrary he tormented Harry as much as the House he was head of did), and even half of Gryffindor House was against him.

Throughout the two months Leon had stayed at Hogwarts, he had kept accurate track of who was friends with who, like how one Slytherin with slicked back blond hair and elfish features always had two thick, gorilla-like lackeys and a snub-nosed girl with bobbed black hair with him at all times, or how the two redheaded twins who tried to surpass the barrier from yesterday were in a trio along with a tall black dude with dreadlocks (Leon's brain, try as he might to suppress it, kept mentally playing Caribbean reggae whenever the black boy entered his field of vision) and apparently were notorious pranksters, or that Potter himself had two best friends, a tall, redheaded boy who was quite obviously the twins' younger brother and a bushy-haired, prominent-molared brunette girl.

Now, however, Leon observed that Harry only now had the company of the brunette girl. His other best friend now spent his time with two other boys, these ones black and Irish, and seemed to be shunning Potter completely. Leon had deduced that it was out of either jealousy or hurt (the kid seemed to think Potter put his name in the Goblet of Fire by himself, rather stupid as Leon felt).

It also did not help that three-point-five-quarters of the school all were against him; and when, following an interview conducted by a popular journalist of the four champions, a humiliating article supposedly revealing an in-depth glimpse of Potter's angst-filled heart surfaced in the Wizarding newspaper, _The Daily Prophet_, the aforementioned majority wasted no time in aggravating him to hell and back with oft-repeated quotes from the article.

Potter had nearly a thousand students against him, one of his best friends abandoned him for something he most likely did not do, and the even media's degrading him.

And yet Potter persevered.

_There's something to be admired at how Potter's taking all this._ Leon thought, admiring.

_November 7th, 1994_

_12:09:08_

Naturally, Leon with his short-fused, dynamite temper could not help but feel deep respect for Potter by a week's end. The black-haired boy had stomached seven – _seven!_ - harrowing days' worth of vilification, disrespect, and ostracization without losing his cool (aside from one time where he snapped at a petite Asian girl who was only handing him his dropped quill) and the much welcome weekend had _finally_ come – Potter finally had sanctuary from the constant tormenting.

It was also this fine afternoon that Leon had decided to take a little stroll in the gravel-and-frost shore by the Black Lake, to find a way to allow something he loved to do often during those hellish years with his parents – while Selina was off in that seaside palace, and when Leon had left school and finished all that was needed to be done, he often spent his time wandering the streets of Marseilles.

Such a walk was happening now, with the French boy now allowing the caravel of his thoughts to drift freely on the currently calm, tranquil oceans that was his inner psyche. Leon now paid no attention to where he was headed save to circumvent any obstacles and wandering Salem students.

Back then, it was very common for Leon to simply leave his suburban home on Hélène Boucher Avenue and stroll over to the lush, verdant pathways of Parc Borély (his parents cared not; for all he knew, they were only sorry he came back), sometimes with his lonesome, sometimes with his childhood friend Adelaide Sinclair. Adelaide was one of the reasons Leon stayed at home for so long; the bubbly blonde kept him more or less emotionally intact with her stubborn optimism and somewhat clingy affection for a while - yet Leon could no longer bear his home conditions after six years of being treated like he wasn't even part of the family and being seen as useless compared to Selina.

Leon's thoughts docked on Adelaide. He wondered what his life at Hogwarts would be like if he had taken her along – he had left without telling anybody; on account of such short notice that Selina's fateful letter arrived. It wouldn't be so lonely, with Mr. Mallard not having made any contact since King's Cross aside from a short, curt letter warning him not to make contact with anyone untrustworthy – that is to say, almost anyone. Adelaide would have kept him company, a friend on which he could confide in, he could help and get help from, could spend the cold, windy nights together, tightly curled up with their arms lovingly around each other under his bed's heavenly sheets, perhaps even some-

_Drop it. She's better off at home, away from all this. It'd be cruel of me to put Adelaide through what I'm going through now. _

With a resolute sigh that brought him back to the safe harbor of the present, Leon continued on his meandering by the shoreline. By now, the sun had sunk far below the jagged horizon, the shadows lengthening over the expansive Hogwarts grounds, and with it the razor-sharp winter winds that swept Hogwarts every night, and the light curtains of snow that slowly drifted downwards were now more prominent and pronounced in the castle's gilded torchlights. The deep orange and purple remnants of the sun's fiery path splashed the sky in vibrant ink-like hues, and in the north, lying low near the horizon, were faint trails of aurora.

Bundled in his thick wool cloak, Leon was too immersed in admiring the dazzling scenery, his heart filling with warm amazement as he gazed at the epitome of nature's beauty, sprawled out before him.

Leon was also oblivious to the fact that someone had spotted his not-so-invisible tracks in the snow.


End file.
